s reverence, Dr. Walsingham.'

And so it came out, that having purchased Salmonfalls, the rector had
compromised the territorial war that was on the point of breaking out
among his parishioners, by exchanging with that old coxcomb Langley, the
great square pew over the way, that belonged to that house, for the
queer little crib in which the tenant of Inchicore had hitherto sat in
state; and so there was peace, if not good will, in the church.

'Hey--let's see it,' said Dangerfield, crossing the aisle, with Irons at
his heels, for he was a man that saw everything for himself, that ever
so remotely concerned him or his business.

'We buried Lord ----' (and the title he spoke very low) 'in the vault
here, just under where you stand, on Monday last, by night,' said Irons,
very gently and grimly, as he stood behind Dangerfield.

A faint galvanic thrill shot up through the flagging and his firmly
planted foot to his brain, as though something said, 'Ay, here I am!'

'Oh! indeed?' said Dangerfield, dryly, making a little nod, and raising
his eyebrows, and just moving a little a one side--''Twas a nasty
affair.'

He looked up, with his hands in his breeches' pockets, and read a mural
tablet, whistling scarce audibly the while. It was not reverent, but he
was a gentleman; and the clerk standing behind him, retained his quiet
posture, and that smile, that yet was not a smile, but a sort of
reflected light--was it patience, or was it secret ridicule?--you could
not tell: and it never changed, and somehow it was provoking.

'And some persons, I believe, had an unpleasant duty to do there,' said
Dangerfield, abruptly, in the middle of his tune, and turning his
spectacles fully and sternly on Mr. Irons.

The clerk's head bent lower, and he shook it; and his eyes, but for a
little glitter through the eyelashes, seemed to close.

''Tis a pretty church, this--a pretty town, and some good families in
the neighbourhood,' said Dangerfield, briskly; 'and I dare say some
trout in the river--hey?--the stream looks lively.'

'Middling, only--poor gray troutlings, Sir--not a soul cares to fish it
but myself,' he answered.

'You're the clerk--eh?'

'At your service, Sir.'

'_Dublin_ man?--or--'

'Born and bred in Dublin, your honour.'

'Ay--well! Irons--you've heard of Mr. Dangerfield--Lord Castlemallard's
agent--I am he. Good-morning, Irons;' and he gave him half-a-crown, and
he took another look round; and then he and Nutter